


Answering the Wild

by Galadriel



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Brother-Sister Relationships, Celebrations, Dancing, Desire, Diplomacy, Horses, M/M, Pining, Royalty, Siblings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-31
Updated: 2015-10-31
Packaged: 2018-04-29 08:01:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5120909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galadriel/pseuds/Galadriel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It has been difficult welcoming the retinue from Gondor when Eomer knows, quite well, what the Prince has come to ask of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Answering the Wild

**Author's Note:**

  * For [monkiainen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/monkiainen/gifts).



> For monkiainen, who prompted, "It's not the Warrior Maiden Faramir wants, but someone else entirely."
> 
> I hope this story is along the lines of what you wanted. Happy Halloween!

The mare rears, silver hooves striking at the air, blonde mane tossing, nostrils flaring. The grooms step swiftly away from the reach of her legs, still holding the guiding ropes steady. She struggles, strains against her bonds, sure of the small space between herself and freedom, between the reigns of servitude and the dark, dark earth beneath her swift feet.

There is danger here, the mare senses it. She is poised on the precipice between fight and flight, the final refuge of resistence before the inevitable fall. Her eyes roll, her breath coming fast and loud in the crisp, cold air, mingling with the short barks of warning and command amongst the Rohirrim who hold her. Dirt sprays from her hooves as they strike the ground, her back bowing as she twists and bucks, no longer willing to be gripped by the whims of the Men who would break her. 

And there, just as he knew she would be, is Eomer's sister -- his beautiful, golden sister -- stepping into the fray, moving closer to the half-wild animal and reaching up for the mare's reins seemingly without a care for her slashing hooves. It is a miracle, enacted daily all through the season, Eowyn's warm, callused hands bringing calm to a panicked beast. The mare settles after naught but a few strokes along her neck and a few words in her ear, and the grooms are able to move close enough to saddle her so long as the new King's sister speaks softly to her.

There is a smattering of applause, a rare show of appreciation for the arts of horsemanship from a delegation less foreign than simply not Rohirrim.

At that, Eomer steps closer to the small group of Gondorians gathered at the edge of the fenced ring. For all their fine fabrics and polished leathers, it does not require keen insight to see that these men are warriors. Warriors no longer in their prime, long retired from the battlefield, but forged in the heat and steel of battle all the same. They lack the softness of life-long advisors and diplomats, their hands rough, eyes wary even when smiles prick at the corners of their lips. They are strange choices for a visiting retinue, but as Eomer is rapidly becoming used to the strange choices of the younger man at their centre, the Prince of Ithilien, it is no great stretch to see his choices as worthy of respect.

The men part around him, making space for Eomer to stand beside their lord. Faramir turns to smile at him, and Eomer feels a flutter low in his stomach, a brush of butterfly wings. The Prince cuts a striking figure, dark blue velvet cascading from his shoulders to the ground, the cape's silvery embroidered edges clasped at his throat with a green metalwork leaf: a memento, he has been told, of Faramir's brother. Faramir's hair is loose, falling in soft waves to his shoulders, his beard neat, and his nails smooth and clean. He is almost every inch a prince, but for the worn mud-spattered boots that peek from beneath his tunic. In them, Eomer sees the man beneath the station: practical and tactical, knowing that a day in the stables will do no good to the finest pair of shoes, and those shoes will do no good to a man's feet. 

Once more, the butterflies take flight inside Eomer. His skin prickles with unearned anticipation, hoping for and dreading any accidental touches, a shoulder against a shoulder, a hand atop an arm. Not for the first time, his mind drifts beyond the friendly handshakes and casual back-pats they have shared over the course of the Prince's visit to possibilities that only exist in the dark, fuelled by baser instincts, confined entirely to his mind. He knows why Faramir and his retinue are here, and it is not _his_ hand Faramir seeks.

Eomer reaches for the fence in front of him, the wooden slats cool and smooth beneath his palms, grounding him enough to calm his traitorous thoughts. He looks towards the ring just in time to see his sister mount the mare, an uneasy marriage of wild thing to wild thing, for Eomer is convinced the horse can sense the wildness that flows through Eowyn's blood. He swallows against the lump in his throat, allowing himself to be swept up by the pure awe he has for his sister, knowing that she deserves a man like Faramir by her side. He gestures as she nods for the grooms to release the mare's bonds, releasing animal and rider to find equilibrium on their own. "Beautiful, isn't she?"

Faramir's eyes sparkle like the stars as he watches Eowyn ride. "Magnificent."

The butterflies in Eomer's stomach drop as they turn to stone.

***

The Hall is bright and loud, all lamps and candles lit, all the most colourful tapestries hoisted and hanging from the rafters. Eomer can hardly hear himself think over the bubbling, trickling, tumbling noise of laughter and song, shouted conversation and thundering feet on board. He raises his mug just enough to be seen, and half a breath later an attendant has filled it to brimming with the best of his mead, shimmering golden and frothy as it pours forth from the jug. 

He knows he is drinking overmuch, knows it best when he sees himself reflected back in the rippling surface of his mead, eyes already red-rimmed and drooping. He should be cheered by the celebration around him, a raucous gathering meant to honour their honourable Gondorian visitors, but it is all he can do to not excuse himself to his chambers, to give in to the urge to brood. He has done nothing today but show the Prince and his attendants the cold, clear beauty of Edoras, acquainting them with the strong hearts and stout bodies that stand against the biting winds sweeping down across the plains. His land. His people.

His sister.

Even now, she swirls like a top in the centre of the floor, skirts and hair whipping at the air around her, no less wild now than when she is loose on the grasslands. Every eye is upon her, captivated by her abandon, unable to look away. 

Eomer knows without looking that Faramir is counted amongst her admirers. He has danced with her more than once this evening, hardly able to keep up with the lively music that has every Rohirrim tapping their toes. But he laughs gamely at every one of his mistakes, throws himself back into the melody, looking to Eowyn for his next cue.

He will make a good husband for Eowyn, Eomer knows this to be true. She is not meant to be broken, nor shod nor led, and Eomer would not give consent to anyone but her equal. Faramir is that equal, and so long as he is whom Eowyn herself desires, Eomer cannot say no. 

He would not say no. Even if his heart is breaking at the thought of losing the daily presence of those whom he loves.

This is not the first time Eomer has met Faramir, nor is it the first time he has taken his measure. Although he has never fought side-by-side on the battlefield with Faramir, the Prince has done the House of Eorl a great service, one which can never be repaid. He has brought the King's sister back from the brink of despair, kept a shieldmaiden from returning to her people on her shield, and kept alive the link between brother and sister, both still firmly standing on the right side of the heavy oak doors of the Halls of Waiting. It is no surprise that Faramir has Eowyn's heart. She may not yet have spoken of her affections, but one look at Faramir has Eomer half in love with him; it will not be long before the matter of marriage reaches his ears.

That is what this visit is about. It has to be. A newly-minted prince needs a partner, and Ithilien would be blessed to have Eowyn, forged as she is in silvery steel. 

The music changes to something slower, the rhythm like the beating of a heart. As each dancer matches themselves to a partner, Eomer feels the mead sour in his mouth. He shifts on his carven chair, uneasy at the thought of watching Eowyn and Faramir become intimates in the midst of the crowd. He will not look at the revellers, he will not watch their faces, he will not allow his thoughts to wander down this road any longer. No, he will give in to his mood and make for his rooms, begging overindulgence if anyone should challenge his exit. 

The chair stutters against the floor, creaking and groaning as he gets to his feet. He stumbles a little as he turns, knocking a plate to the floor, the clatter drawing attention from the people around him as much from the dogs who fight to claim the fallen food first. He should be mortified, but his gloom covers all, and quietly, secretly he is pleased that there now is evidence of his inebriated state. He brushes off what help is offered, and excuses himself with weak apologies, stepping down from the raised table and stalking across the floor. The mead has curdled in his belly, rancid and roiling. He can taste it in the back of his throat, crawling upward over his tongue. 

His feelings notwithstanding, he must do the right thing. He must give Eowyn the life she richly deserves with the man who so richly deserves her. It is right, it is fair, and it is his only reasonable choice.

The mead feels like lead in his stomach, a fall of rock settling upon stone.

"My lord?" The words cut through the rumble of the Hall, a delicate blade of sound sliding through the fleshy wall of festivity. If only Eomer can make it to the tapestry, the large one embroidered with a unicorn resting at a fountain, there is a small door just beyond it through which he can slip, and beyond that, blessed silence. He reaches the corner, more than ready to gain the edge, when a warm hand comes down on his shoulder. 

"My lord," the voice says again, and this time Eomer recognizes the gentle tones even as he turns towards the speaker. "I would bid you wait a moment, as I would like to speak to you alone."

Faramir. He is so close, close enough that it would be nothing to lean forward, to touch foreheads and close eyes, to breathe in each other's breath. But this is not the time. There will never be a time, as the hour that Eomer has feared has finally appeared. 

Eomer presses his lips together and looks up at the vaulted ceiling. He wishes he were up there with the birds, huddling close against the weather, but still high enough that the worries of the world below are nothing to them. He takes a long, deep breath, denying that he can smell the spice of Faramir's body, the subtle musk of exertion on his clothes. "You need not say it. You have my permission, for how could I withhold anything from a man like you?"

When Eomer finally looks Faramir in the eyes, he is surprised to see a pleasantly puzzled expression on the Prince's face. Is that not what he wanted? They will make a fair couple, Eowyn and he. He glances beyond Faramir, finally fixing his gaze on the still-whirling dancers, and blinks a little as he realizes his sister remains in their midst, captivated not by this lord from Gondor, but caught up instead in the movement of her own body, the music that thrums through her veins. He opens his mouth as the faintest flicker of understanding crackles to life in his mind, as interested to hear his own next words as to find out what Faramir truly wants...

...when he finds himself firmly tugged behind the tapestry, and pulled hard against the harder body of Faramir. Eomer swears he hears himself speaking, but whatever he says is caught up in a moan, swallowed neatly by Faramir who seals Eomer's lips with his own. Eomer isn't quite sure how Faramir has manoeuvred him so quickly against the wall, but he does not object to the firm arm around his waist, the questing fingers pulling at his lacings. His own arms, ever traitors, wrap around Faramir's back, tightening like the tack that has kept his heart in check, that has caused his heart to buck and rear against the prison it has feared. 

When they break, it brings Eomer a peace he did not know he wanted, a gentling hand against his cheek. He shakes his head. "But I thought you admired my sister." There are no other words he can offer, only the unvarnished truth.

Faramir's smile loosens the rockslide in the pit of Eomer's stomach, turning stone to fragile butterflies once again. "I do. She is a formidable woman. I would be pleased to call her my sister... if you would but have me, Eomer-King, friend as you are to Gondor, Marshall of the Mark, and keeper of my soul."

Eomer's throat is dry, his palms clammy, yet he finds himself unconcerned. His skin prickles with familiar anticipation, yet all dread is gone. He is losing nothing. There will be someone worthy of Eowyn yet, but for now, just for now, Eomer will think of nothing but his own worth, his own desires, his own needs. For if this man, this _prince_ can ask for his companionship in the light as well as the dark, he must be worthy, must be wanted, must be willing and is certainly more than able. 

He reaches out, closing his callused palm over Faramir's own. "Come to my chambers, my prince, and we can discuss your proposal properly, in private, and perhaps without such confining clothes." He doesn't need to see his face to know he wears the echo of the grin that graces Faramir's lips.

All it takes is a little tug, and they're through the small, hidden door.

The butterflies in Eomer's stomach take flight: a little wildness in his blood answered, he now knows, by the wildness in Faramir's own.


End file.
